Then they rounded Point Shima, the last promontory before the open sea. Lurking outside the channel entrance was the Taiwanese submarine, Hai Shih, an old Guppy class boat handed down by the U.S.
Hai Shih’s captain had been waiting for the Sovremennys. His first torpedo took the lead destroyer, Fan Tzu, amidships. The destroyer went into a sickening skid, a ball of flame belching from her midsection. Its stern buckled and broke away as the destroyer entered its death throes.
His second torpedo missed the stern of Fan Tao by thirty meters. Without slowing, Fan Tao raced past its dying sister ship. Before the submarine could pump another torpedo after it, the Sovremenny destroyer was launching anti-submarine missiles. Three of the high-speed missiles arced through the sky like killer hawks, plunging back to the surface and disappearing.
Seconds later, a geyser of foam and debris gushed to the surface. An ugly pool of black oil began to spread, marking the gravesite of the Hai Shih. The Fan Tao maintained speed, leaving in its wake the smoke and debris of the two shattered warships.
The Sovremenny destroyer was headed into the strait.
Nice butt, observed Catfish Bass.
Mai-ling was leading the way into the briefing room, the same one with the charts on the wall and the miniature air base in the center. Maxwell and Bass were following her. She was still wearing the tight jeans. Bass noticed for the first time that she had a patch of an American flag sewn on the hip pocket.
Too bad she’s a world class bitch. The snotty babe reminded him of the grad school women he used to know at UCLA. There was something about them. If they possessed the rare combination of good looks and exceptional brains, they had the disposition of a crazed mongoose.
Like this one. Hadn’t missed a chance to sink her teeth into his ankle. He wondered whether it had something to do with his own ethnicity. The fact of his being half Chinese seemed to trigger some kind of hate reflex in Chinese women.
For reasons he hadn’t figured out, Mai-ling had attached herself to Maxwell. He was far too old for her — the guy had to be pushing forty — and, anyway, he had other things to think about. She probably had him sized up as her ticket to the states. Or maybe something more than that.
Bass couldn’t take his eyes off the little flag sewn on her right hip pocket. It moved in a hypnotic rhythm as she walked down the hallway. At the entrance to the briefing room, Mai-ling stopped. She sensed something.
She whirled and gave him a fierce look.
“Nice flag,” he said.
“Animal.” She wheeled and marched on down the hallway.
Predictable, he thought. The type who couldn’t handle a compliment.
They entered the cavernous room with the model of the Chouzhou air base in the center. Mai-ling, Maxwell, and Bass took seats on one side. Opposite them sat a dozen Taiwanese Army officers in their utilities. To a man, they were compactly built, wearing the same intense expression, sitting in a row like coiled springs.
They refused to make eye contact. After an initial curious look at the Americans, they kept their attention studiously focused on some faraway object. Bass figured them to be officers of the commando unit that would insert them into Chouzhou.
The thought of the coming operation sent a fresh chill down Bass’s spine.
He heard the clunk of boots on the wooden floor. All heads turned to see Colonel Chiu, in battle dress uniform, stride into the room. He looked like a drum major, arms swinging at his side, heels hammering the floor.
Someone barked a command in Chinese. As if they were a single entity, the Taiwanese officers shot to their feet and stood quivering at rigid attention.
Not sure what to do, Bass glanced over at Maxwell. Slowly, without great precision, he unwound from the seat and rose to his feet, standing at a loose parade rest. Bass followed suit. Mai-ling made a sour face and stayed seated. “I’m not in their army,” she whispered. “I don’t have to do that.”
Cool, thought Bass. The chick was finallly showing a little class.
“Seats,” Chiu barked out. In another single movement, the commandos slammed themselves back down in the seats.
Joined at the hip. Bass wondered if any of them was capable of thinking by himself. Maybe they weren’t allowed to.
The colonel spoke in rapid Mandarin. Bass could follow only about half the content. Chiu told his audience that the raid on Chouzhou — now called Operation Raven Swoop — had been moved up. Taiwan’s worsening military situation made it imperative that they execute their mission without delay. They would take off at 0300 local tomorrow morning. The colonel paused and looked at Bass. “Please translate for Commander Maxwell.”
Bass nodded, then gave Maxwell an abbreviated version of Chiu’s briefing. He saw Mai-ling shaking her head at his clumsy interpretations.
“Okay, tell him I’ve got it,” said Maxwell.
Chiu continued in Chinese, pausing every couple of minutes for Bass to translate. Bass was having trouble following the quick, guttural speech. It was a country Mandarin dialect unfamiliar to him. Some of the peculiar nuances he had to guess at.
The commando force would total ninety troops, transported in four CH-47 Chinook helicopters and escorted by another four Cobra gunships. Diversionary attacks would be conducted on coastal targets, and a bogus amphibious force would be aimed at a site south of Chouzhou. Prior to the raid, the vicinity’s air defense batteries would be raked by Harpoon missiles launched from offshore naval vessels.
The colonel walked up to the model of the air base. With a long pointer he indicated the landing sites of the helicopters, the locations of the base surface defense units, the routes taken by the elements of the commando force.
“These four hangars,” Chiu said in English, “house the Black Star project.” He pointed to a semi-circle of fortified shelters. “According to our source—” he looked pointedly at Mai-ling, “—we are supposed to find at least one flyable aircraft in Hangar Number One.” He rapped on the first of the four shelters. “If there are more than one, as she claims, they should be in the adjoining hangar.”
Listening to the briefing, Bass’s sinking feeling returned. It was a desperate plan. Too damned desperate. The idea was to breach the tight ring of security the PLA had around the Black Star long enough to insert him and Maxwell into the hangar. What happened next depended on whether they found a flyable airplane.
And whether they could fly it. Bass was performing quick calculations. Ninety commandos versus the People’s Liberation Army. How many PLA troops were in the vicinity of Chouzhou? A thousand? Ten thousand?
The sinking feeling was getting worse.
Chiu looked at Maxwell. “How much time do you require before you can move the airplane?”
“It depends on what we find,” said Maxwell. “We need to locate the specialized equipment — helmets with the correct radio connections, harnesses, oxygen masks.”
“There will no time for random searches. We will not be able to maintain a perimeter defense while you amuse yourselves looking at flight gear.”
“If necessary we will use the generic equipment with standard fittings that we take with us.”
“You haven’t answered my question. How long before you will be prepared to fly the airplane?”
“At least half an hour. Perhaps longer. It depends on the complexity of the airplane.”